I’m only half paying attention to Kurt when he touches my arm. Reaching carefully across the small caf� table to get to me. He’s staring at me with those ridiculously gorgeous eyes and I feel like a monster for drifting off. I wouldn’t usually zone out on him, you understand, but I have a splitting headache today and blocking the world out is becoming increasingly necessary.

“Sorry, Kurt?” I say earnestly, hoping he’ll just repeat what he said and I can start letting his voice back into my head. He makes a mildly dejected sound and rolls his eyes, like I might have heard him the first time and I just want him to repeat what I missed out of narcissism. Which, I’d like to point out, could never be true; I can’t even handle a compliment.

“I said, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He’s got one of those little smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth. The small things make me happy. He taps my arm affectionately and then briefly runs his fingers over the base of my wrist before he pulls his hands back to his side of the table. I start fiddling with the cup in front of me, flicking it and watching as the liquid ripples. It’s a storm in a teacup.

“I’m honestly not that amazing, Kurt. I‘m sure you‘d be just fine.” I respond honestly;
he always does this, tells me that he admires me, my strength, my certainty, my honesty. It makes me feel overwhelmingly guilty. The fa�ade that I insist on maintaining with him is extremely painful. It hurts me, that he thinks I’m such a rock, that I give him strength. I couldn’t tell him the truth now. It’s too late, he trusts me too much, it’d ruin everything.

“I wouldn’t be just fine, Mr Modest. Who‘d I coerce into cleaning Pavarotti’s cage out for me?” Kurt lets a small laugh burst past his lips and he checks his watch, it’s getting late but I don’t want to go home, I never want to go home. I hate it. I hate it so much but nowhere near as much as I hate pretending to Kurt that everything is perfect there. Pretending that under this school uniform I don’t have a host of blue and purple boot marks on my chest- like someone’s been dancing on my ribs. Or stamping on my body.

“We should probably head home.” I offer remorsefully, I could sit here until closing time talking to him, watching him, loving him. It takes Kurt about an hour longer to drive home than it takes for me to walk to my house from here, I always insist that he heads home early. I’m not entirely content with the idea of him driving in the dark for such a long time. Not after my mom…

“I have to pick Finn up on my way home anyway. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask me to drop Noah home so that’ll take an extra forty minutes. It’s like they don’t care about my strict beauty regime.” I watch as he shakes his head in disbelief, like he expected Finn to genuinely care about his complexion. I smile; it sounds so Kurt.

“His car is still at the garage?” It’s been gone for a week and Kurt’s been chauffeuring his new brother around like nobody’s business. It’s a little suspicious, especially since it’s Burt who’s fixing his car.

“I think my Dad’s doing it on purpose. For the sake of bonding or something.” Kurt speculates, lifting the cup in front of him to his mouth. He takes a final sip and sighs with resignation.

“Let’s get out of here.” I say, offering him a smile as we stand and walk toward the exit. He runs a quick hand through his hair, pulls open the door and struts outside. He’s so confident these days. It’s beautiful; it’s inspiring.

“You’ll phone me later, let me know you got home?” He asks and I marvel at his concern, I only have to walk just outside of town. Kurt pats himself down, checking his phone hasn’t slipped out of his pocket and then he smiles at me hopefully. He seems so happy, I don’t even have to look for hidden meanings in his words. He has such a great family. A wonderful father. It blows me away. I’m not jealous- it’s just the way these things are.

“Of course I‘ll phone.” I reply. Knowing that talking to him keeps me sane, keeps me focused, helps me keep my eye on the ball. I am better than this town. I am better than that house. I am better than my father.

“Okay then.” he says, opening his arms to me, waiting for a hug.

It takes me about two seconds to be holding him and rubbing his back. He does the same to me but his touch is absurdly gentle and I’m grateful. My back still hurts from my ‘fall’ down the stairs last week. Of course, he doesn’t know about any of that but I’m still thankful for his tenderness.

“Bye, Kurt.” I whisper and he pulls away.

“We’ll talk later.” He confirms and he starts to walk off. I stand outside the caf�, watching him until he vanishes into his car and he pulls away.

The house stinks when I get home, it reeks. It smells like a mix of beer, vomit, piss and those horrible cigars my father insists on smoking indoors. The curtains are closed and there’s stuff everywhere. I know I didn’t leave it like that, I definitely cleaned this mess up before I went to school. I remember scrubbing blood stains off the floor.

“Hey, Faggot?” My lovely father bellows from the kitchen. Either his hearing is improving or he‘s starting to wait for me to get home. I leave my bag at the foot of the stairs and walk onwards to the kitchen. I’m not afraid of him. I’m bigger than this. I have to be. When I finish school I’m packing my bags, gathering my instruments and ditching town. Until then I’m here, there’s no way I can afford the Dalton fees otherwise and my father is stupid enough to not notice that the payments still come out of his bank account every term.

When I get into the kitchen he’s a sight for sore eyes. He’s slumped over our original marble countertops with a bottle of, what appears to be, vodka in his hand. The disgusting aroma of urine stronger than ever; it’s obvious he’s pissed himself again.

It’s repulsive the way he can shamelessly present himself like this to me. The way he tries to beat me down with his words and his fists whilst covered in his own filth. I’m glad my mother isn’t alive to see what he’s become, how the business he worked so damn hard for is slowly failing apart and what he puts me through.

“What is it?” I ask and I try not to sound icy but it doesn’t help. He turns his head to me and snarls. He’s like a wild animal- primitive and stupid.

“Clean the house.” He orders dismissively - like I’m a battered housewife who’ll do anything for him. I won’t. Yes, I do clean his mess up, but not for him, I do it because I can’t stand the idea that if my mom is watching over me all she sees is this pig sty and her senseless husband.

“No. I‘ve got homework for school.” I say, trying to be non-confrontational. I don’t have a death wish, I don’t pick fights, I don’t like shouting.

“I said clean the fucking house!” He screams, spittle flying from his lips and making me feel sick. My head pounds and my heart starts to race.

“And I said no.” I say rather boldly, I can feel my pulse now, my temples are thumping.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that! You fucking faggot!” He erupts as he stumbles to his feet, kicking a bottle that lay on the floor across the room. It shatters into little pieces and I’ll prioritise that in my clean up tomorrow- provided there’s no blood to remove.

He staggers forwards and I start retreating as he swings out at me, trying to grab my blazer. I want to turn and run, I do, but the last time I turned my back on him he hit me over the head and knocked me unconscious.

“I’ll teach you some manners! You ungrateful little shit.” Manners, I think, looking down at his soiled trousers. When did it become socially acceptable to walk around like that. Never. Never ev-

It’s then that he catches me. His claw like fingers digging into my shoulders as he throws me into the wall. My head flings backwards and slams off the brick, an explosion of light bursting before my eyes as his hands get impossibly tighter. He’s leaving bruises on bruises now and a tiny whimper escapes my lips. I hope he can’t hear it. I hope he doesn’t get the satisfaction. My head feels fuzzy.

“You march into this house-” he spits viciously and his breath is absolutely noxious, “You think you’re so much smarter than me!”

He moves one of his hands to my throat and he pushes me into the wall, my neck starts to burn and I can barely breathe. I’m gulping and trying to swallow but I can’t. The pressure is building in my head and he’s shaking me and shaking me and suddenly I know that I’m crying. I’m crying because it hurts, because this could be the end. I think of Kurt. The world goes away.